


The Terrible Linear Line That Is Time

by fairyScorpicus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst and Feels, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Loneliness, Lonely Sherlock, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Teen Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 02:16:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20301799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairyScorpicus/pseuds/fairyScorpicus
Summary: Sherlock knew he would never forgive Mycroft for leaving, but if Mycroft came back right then, Sherlock would forgive him for everything.Or: Mycroft leaves and goes to college, and Sherlock realizes that it is the first time Mycroft has really left.[This work is finished]





	The Terrible Linear Line That Is Time

When Sherlock and Mycroft were younger, they were closer, as all siblings were. But they grew older, and Mycroft had his own room, and their relationship changed. They played less and less, and their conversations changed from cheerful banter to arguments and "Leave me alone!" or "Get out of my room!" They could live in the same house and not see or speak to each other for days, and the walls between their hearts was a thousand feet thick.

When Mycroft first broke one of Sherlock's favorite toys, Sherlock told himself he would never forgive Mycroft, and held his grudge close to his heart.

When Mycroft first told their parents about something Sherlock did, Sherlock told himself he would never forgive Mycroft, and held his grudge close to his heart.

When Mycroft would do anything that Sherlock begged him not to, Sherlock would tell himself he would never forgive Mycroft.

Sherlock would hold his grudges forever, and Mycroft knew that.

Mycroft was a senior in high school, and college was just around the corner. He chose Sherlock's dream college to attend, and Sherlock told himself he would never forgive Mycroft. And then Mycroft realized something that hadn't occurred to Sherlock; Mycroft would leave for a very long time and they wouldn't see each other for years. And Mycroft felt something: desperation. He tried to spend every spare second with Sherlock, trying to recall how they used to get along. But the wall between their hearts was a thousand feet thick, and Sherlock had a thousand grudges held close to his hearts and every attempt to communicate dissolved into arguments.

"I won't miss you when you're gone!" Sherlock shouted at him. "In fact, I'll be glad that you aren't around! It's not like you actually pay attention to me anyways!" Mycroft struggled to hide how deep those words cut into his heart, but his desperation to be with his brother overrode all pain. The days were slipping past faster than a speeding motorcycle. So he chipped at the one thousand thick wall with at his might.

Mycroft had asked Sherlock to spend time with him, to which Sherlock had reminded his brother that he was still holding a grudge against him. But Mycroft looked desperate, and Sherlock was kind. He relented and spent time with Mycroft. They argued playfully and laughed, and thought Sherlock loathed to admit it, he had a good time.

When Mycroft had to leave, he entered Sherlock's room in the middle of the night. He hugged his younger brother like the hot summer air, and as Sherlock tried to wake his still-sleeping brain to process what was happening, Mycroft said, "I love you."

Sherlock had frozen for a moment, and then struggled to push open the gates to his heart and replied, "I love you too." Just saying those words felt painful, and the effort made him tired. He went back to sleep, feeling all jagged and pointy edges, and Mycroft left his room.

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he knew Mycroft was already gone. He couldn't find it in himself to get out of bed, at first, but he forced himself to get up and walk over to Mycroft's room and check. The door was open, bed unmade, looking in all of the world as if Mycroft had gone for just a brief second and would return any minute to drag Sherlock out of his room. But Mycroft didn't appear, and Sherlock stepped slowly into the room as if he had never seen it in his life. He spotted Mycroft's favorite books, and games, and material objects Sherlock knew Mycroft was fond of. He wondered why Mycroft hadn't taken them with him.

_Mycroft loved the small poster on the wall that had all the types of governments on it. He wouldn't let Sherlock touch it, even though there wasn't much Sherlock could actually do to a poster. Why hadn't Mycroft taken it with him? That poster was important to him. Why hadn't Mycroft taken the poster with him? Why hadn't Mycroft taken Sherlock with him?_

And a void opened in Sherlock's heart.

Oh, how he was so lonely! He was ashamed to admit he cried. He had never realized all their horrible fights and constant bothering could have been their own very close form of friendship, and now Sherlock was truly alone. He had no one to poke when he was bored, no one to share special little secrets with when he wanted to, no one to go to when he needed help or when he was confused. He didn't have any friends, except Mycroft, but even Mycroft was gone. All the previous times he had bemoaned how alone he was, it was nothing compared to now. The sense of nobody around crushed him more than a boot could crush an ant.

How empty and silent the house was! Even when they weren't spitting harsh words at each other, there was always the suds of breathing and humming and footsteps and the cursed sound of Mycroft typing on his laptop. But now the house was quiet and unmoving, not even white noise or flies buzzing. There was no presence of another human being, another soul in the building, and Sherlock felt afraid. He finally realized how alone he was and it pained him greatly.

There was a void in his heart, in his very soul, a gash so wide and large that it consumed him completely. Sherlock was drowning in a strange emptiness that followed him everywhere, and his throat burned with tears. The void had leeched color out of his life faster than Sherlock could have ever imagined.

And Mycroft never returned. Sherlock didn't know what was crueler; that Mycroft had left or that Mycroft had been kind and friendly and open like the good old days before he left, giving Sherlock a taste of what had been, what could have been if they both hadn't put up their one thousand thick wall.

Sherlock knew he would never forgive Mycroft for leaving, but if Mycroft came back right now, Sherlock would forgive him for everything. The broken toys, the tattle-tales, the futures stolen, every little grievance would be forgiven. In fact, they were already forgiven, cast aside in the overwhelming desperation that consumed him. He would walk nonstop for days and fling himself at Mycroft's feet if he could, and beg him to return home. But he couldn't. It was college, it was Mycroft's bright future, it was everything Mycroft needed and Sherlock could be selfish sometimes but he could never, never, never deprive Mycroft of something so important and vital to life.

Sherlock fell to the floor, in the center of Mycroft's room, and sobbed deep sobs, completely and utterly alone in every way that ever mattered.


End file.
